I'd do anything to forget Nicolas Sarkozy's first anniversary in power. I could even buy Pierre-Louis Colin's Guide to the pretty women of Paris. British tabloids like the Sun have already risen to the occasion, half-shocked, half-titillated, accusing the author of giving tips on where best to pick up girls in Paris while rejoicing at the prospect. Next, in a brilliant 10,000 word essay, I expect Germaine Greer to denounce Colin's machismo and his objectification of Parisian woman in such a degrading way.

Very short extracts have filtered in the British press and contributed to the book's parfum de scandale: "You do not find in Ménilmontant the sublime legs you see at the Madeleine. But you do find perfectly shameless cleavages, radiant breasts often uncluttered by a bra." The AFP wrote that Colin regrets, for instance, it is no longer possible to loiter contemplatively outside high schools because "current legislation and a certain form of collective psychosis have created a climate of suspicion that makes every admirer of young girls a rapist of children". Enough to have the Sun do what it does best: drool in anticipation while recoiling in horror.

Let's leave the shocked and aroused British crowd for a moment.

Paris is indeed the world capital of cafe gazing. And what's wrong in observing, and at times admiring the beauty on display? Be they women and men of all ages, here is one of the most civilised passe-temps, one which have inspired many different vocations. The perversity is in the eye of the beholder: in Paris, cafe-gazing is not leering nor peeping. Stay at the terrace of a Parisian cafe or go to le Louvre, the experience shares huge similarities. Cafe-gazing can even rank to poetry.